Firelight
by LadyCumberBunny
Summary: Sequel to "Moonlight", set after TFP. After the events at Sherrinford, Sherlock Holmes realizes what he must do concerning Molly Hooper. (Second installment of the "Light-Verse" series)
1. Chapter 1

_Hello my wonderful readers! This is the second installment of the "Lightt-verse" series I am currently working on! Where "Moonlight" was set before the events of season 4, this fic deals with some of the aftermath after TFP. I know that I mentioned at the end of "Moonlight" that "Sunlight" would be the follow up, I am a lying liar. I had nearly completed "Sunlight" when my beta mentioned that the events in it didn't really follow the events in "Moonlight", so as a result this monster of a multi chapter fic was born._

 _As always, the biggest of shout outs to my fantastic betas, forthegenuine , for making my writing readable to the general public, and to mollyhooperish for all of the invaluable ideas. A huge thanks go to both of them, because without their continuous encouragement, my fics would never see the light of day. Any and all mistakes that may appear are my own, and in no way a reflection of my amazing betas and their skills._

 _DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, I'm just borrowing ACD and BBC's characters for a bit._

 **Firelight**

 **Chapter 1**

Sherlock Holmes sat in an uncomfortable high backed chair in his brother's drawing room. The only light source the flickering flames in the fireplace, causing the consulting detective's face to be bathed in dancing shadows. His hands were placed together at the palms, fingertips resting on his Cupid's bow mouth, eyebrows drawn together over his unfocused stormy blue-green eyes.

Sherlock Holmes couldn't stop his mind from spinning. He couldn't stop the deluge of information from spiraling nonstop in his brain. His mind palace was in shambles from the onslaught on data it had received in such a short period of time, the walls threatening to crumble, doors in danger of falling right off the hinges, files and cases in flutters of paper like flakes of snow in a blizzard. He stood at the entrance of his mind palace, staring down the hallway, watching papers blow about in an unseen wind. He knew he needed to start sorting out the mess in his head before it got out of control and he lost all form of organization, knew he should be trying to categorize the events of the last forty-eight hours, but the door at the very end of this particular corridor was calling to him.

He knew where he had to go. He knew whom he must see within the labyrinthine halls of his extensive memory. He knew he needed to open the shaking door and face her. But…

Sherlock Holmes was terrified of what he might find in his subconscious.

The door at the end of the corridor rattled violently on its hinges, the handle twisting and turning as who was behind it tried to force her way out. Steeling himself for a subconscious confrontation, Sherlock started to move towards the door, his mind altering the layout of the halls, forcing the door to meet him halfway, his hand inches from the rattling handle…

"You know you must talk to her, brother mine." Mycroft's voice interrupted.

Sherlock came crashing back to reality, blinking the dryness from his eyes; a result of not blinking for such a long period of time. He sighed, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

"I know," Sherlock admitted, not bothering to face his older brother.

Mycroft walked over to the chair opposite Sherlock and sat down heavily. Sherlock flicked a glance his brother's way, noticing the dark circles under Mycroft's eyes, the new lines that seemed to find their way onto his face overnight, and the way his waistcoat hung more loosely on him than it had before.

"However hard that must have been at Sherrinford, you must explain to her what happened. Even _I_ know that." Mycroft said, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips.

"What am I supposed to say to her?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, folding his arms across his chest, staring deep into the dancing flames before him.

"Explain it to her as you see fit, brother mine." Mycroft said, staring at the flames for a moment before looking at Sherlock. "But I do suggest that perhaps you should start with the truth."

"The _truth_ ," Sherlock scoffed. "And how would I even begin to explain that I have a long lost sister, whose memories I repressed because she is psychotic. She has killed numerous people just for the hell of it, became best friends with Moriarty after five minutes worth of conversation, somehow snuck out of a maximum security island prison _twice_ , tried to seduce John, and then became his therapist under a different disguise, and helped me find the most dangerous serial killer in all of London. Oh, and she killed my childhood best friend when she was a child herself, and because of the trauma, I changed my very human friend into a dog in my memories."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and glared at the flames, his nostrils flaring with anger.

"I see your dilemma," sighed Mycroft.

Sherlock gripped the arms of the chair with his long white fingers and leaned towards Mycroft.

"Do not pretend for one moment that you even understand _feelings_ , Mycroft." He spat. "You were there; you saw what Eurus did to me. To _her_." Sherlock jumped to his feet and began to pace, his anger causing white hot energy to scream through his veins.

 _How could so much change in such a short amount of time?_ Sherlock thought, dragging his hands roughly through his hair. Nothing in the last forty-eight hours made sense to him. How could he go from his biggest problem being a double murder late at night, to having a psychotic sister all of the sudden?

Things were so much simpler before Mary died. Before the Culverton Smith fiasco.

Before Sherrinford.

Just a month before Sherlock's ill fated journey to the London Aquarium, he had let himself into Molly's flat with the intention of using her spare bedroom as a quiet place to think, when he found himself standing next to her bed. As always, Molly gave him what he needed without him having to actually ask, and he had fallen asleep with the small pathologist wrapped in his arms.

What had become the norm for them changed completely when Mary died, and Sherlock had lost John Watson's friendship for a while. He could still remember how sadly Molly had looked at him, standing outside the Watsons' door, holding their goddaughter. It was such a sharp contrast to the laughing, comfortable Molly that had stood beside him at little Rosie's christening, jokingly reprimanding him for giving his phone more attention than his goddaughter.

The day she had given him the note from John, had repeated John's hurtful words to him, was the last time he had seen her sober.

The night he showed up to her flat, high from a mixture of cocaine and morphine, she had taken one look at his stubbled jaw and unkempt hair, and slammed the door soundly in his face. He had left her a note (slid underneath her door) asking to please meet him at the following address in two weeks' time. Three days later he received a text from her. It was short and to the point, saying she would be there.

She refused to answer any of his following messages. And refused to talk to him the whole drive to meet with Culverton Smith, except her outburst when John had shown up.

" _For Christ's sake, Sherlock! It's not a game!" she had practically screamed at him._

 _He looked at her, properly, for the first time since she had slammed the door in his face. Sherlock noticed the dark circles under her eyes, how limp her hair seemed. Her face was drawn, and her nails were shorter where she had bitten them._

" _I'm worried about you, Molly." Sherlock said, looking closer at her, trying to see through the haze of the drugs in his system. "You seem very stressed…"_

 _Molly threw him a dirty look. "I'm stressed, you're dying!" she spat venomously._

 _He couldn't resist getting a jab in, not in his altered state._

" _Yeah, well, I'm ahead, then." He said, his eyes flashing for just a moment._

The look she gave him haunted him for the next month.

All he wanted was for things to go back to the way they were before, when everything was simple, and his actions went unquestioned. He just wanted to let himself into Molly's flat whenever he felt like it, wanted to slide into her bed and wrap her in his arms and get some actual sleep. He wanted to-

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, halting in his pacing.

His outburst woke Mycroft, who had dozed off in his chair. He looked wildly around, before his eyes settled on his little brother. Sherlock was still as a statue, eyes wide.

After ten minutes of Sherlock staring unblinkingly at nothing in particular, Mycroft decided to break the silence.

"Care to inform me what I could've missed, that you have somehow deduced?" Mycroft drawled.

"This is my fault." Sherlock murmured, still staring straight ahead, lost in his mind.

"Your fault?" Mycroft asked. "Sherlock, we have discussed this. This whole matter of Eurus, of what happened at Sherrinford, everything, none of it is your fault. You were a child when it started-"

"No, Mycroft! Molly! Eurus choosing Molly for her demented little game. _That_ was all my fault!" Sherlock said, snapping his eyes to Mycroft.

Mycroft closed his mouth and looked at his younger brother with wide eyes.

Of course! Thought Sherlock. It was his own entire fault! Why else did Moriarty choose unassuming little Mousey Molly Hooper to get close to him? Why not choose John? Or Mrs. Hudson? Or even Lestrade? The answer was simple. Sherlock was always telling John that he never observed, and after all this time, it was Sherlock who chose not to observe what was right in front of his face.

Molly Hooper mattered most.

The years he had been using her flat as a bolt hole. All the years he would sprawl on her couch, or go through her fridge, or do experiments in her bathtub. All the nights they would share meals together (Molly being the only one who could actually convince Sherlock to eat on a semi-regular basis), or watch crap telly. All the days he would actually clean up after himself while he was at her flat because she liked things neat, whereas he would leave a trail of destruction at his own.

And now, most recently, all the nights he fell asleep content to just be holding Molly in his arms.

How long had the cameras Eurus used been in Molly's flat? Half a year? A year? Two? Five? Did it really matter? One week of watching footage from Molly and Sherlock's interactions would have been more than enough for someone as smart as his sister to deduce how he felt about her.

The one person, they thought who didn't count, mattered most of all.

And it had been used against him.

Sherlock realized that he kneeling on the floor, not quite remembering how he ended up getting there. He looked up from his hands to Mycroft, eyes wide and full of doubt and questions.

"What do I do, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked in a strained voice, looking to Mycroft very much like his baby brother from childhood.

Mycroft looked back at him, and for once the older brother's face held none of its usual contempt.

"What you must." Mycroft replied.

 _Thank you so much for reading! The next chapter has been sent to my betas, and will be up in a few days!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Firelight**

 **Chapter 2**

Sherlock stares at his brother, his face blank.

 _What you must._

He stood up, brushing the knees of his trousers off and straightening his suit jacket. He resumed his position in the chair opposite Mycroft, hands placed together palm to palm, fingertips resting against his lips, eyes stormy under his furrowed brow.

 _What you must._

Sherlock couldn't just tell her. He couldn't tell her what had been blindingly obvious to nearly everyone for years. Because then she would know. She would know that her feelings aren't one sided. For someone whom everyone sees as so small and mousey, Sherlock knew there is a spine of steel in her, and she is often times more stubborn than he is. She won't care that his love for her will paint a metaphorical target on her back, that because of him she will be targeted by his enemies. He couldn't put her in that position ever again.

 _What you must._

He knew what he must do. What he must say to her, to keep her safe.

"And where are you going, brother mine?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock stood, buttoning his suit jacket.

"To do what I must." He replied simply, grabbing his Belstaff on his way out the door.

He knocked on her door. He hasn't knocked in years, choosing instead to pick the lock or use his key when Molly finally gave him a copy.

But he knocked anyway. Best to keep this as business like as possible, because what he is about to do might destroy them both.

He heard her footsteps, sensed her looking through the peephole. He locked his hands behind his back, putting on his best _I'm bored and I just want to get this over with_ face. But when Molly finally opened the door, his carefully cultivated speech died in his throat.

Molly Hooper stood before him, her eyes rimmed in red and puffy from crying, traces of mascara leaving black smears under her lashes. Her hair a tangled mess from where she had ran her hands through it repeatedly, and she wore her cherry patterned jumper and unflattering beige slacks.

The only thing Sherlock could think of in that moment was that she had never looked more beautiful to him.

He heard a small whimper from her before she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist and sobbing into the material of his Belstaff. Sherlock did the only thing that made sense to him in that moment, and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, the other hand came to cradle the back of her head and held her to him, placing his cheek against her hair. He breathed in the smell of her shampoo, detecting faint traces of formaldehyde interwoven with the rosemary and mint.

After a moment, Sherlock shifted, removing his hand from her hair and pulling back to look at her. Her face was wet with tears; he could see a well of emotions standing out in stark clarity behind her eyes. Anger, confusion and hurt battled for dominance. Eurus's voiced sounded in his mind- _Look at what you did to her_ \- and Sherlock had to tear his eyes away from her face for a moment.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her around, leading her to her small sofa with a hand on the small of her back. Sherlock sat down, and Molly dropped next to him, her face buried in her hands. Struggling internally for a moment, Sherlock hesitantly pulled her to him, letting her cry on to his shoulder, one of her small hands clutched the lapel of his woolen coat, the other dug into the fabric on his arm.

"I am so sorry, Molly Hooper. So, _so_ sorry." He told her quietly, repeatedly.

By the time her tears finally dry, the sun had set and the flickering flames from the fireplace the only light source in the room. Molly pulled back and looked Sherlock in the eyes.

"Hello," He said quietly, wiping at the tear tracks on her cheek with his thumb.

"Hello." She replied, her voice thick from crying.

Sherlock studied her face, the way the flames from the firelight danced in her eyes, casting a warm glow across her skin. He shifted his gaze to the floor, intent on studying the carpet rather than look her in the eye when he says the words that will cause her heart to splinter.

"Molly," He began.

"Shh." She interuppted, placing her fingers on his lips. He tears his gaze away from the carpet and looks into her eyes, his eyebrows knitting together. The corner of her mouth pulled up into the ghost of a smile. "I don't want to talk about whatever happened in the last couple of days. Not yet. I just want to sit quietly with you, just for tonight. We can discuss everything tomorrow. But please, Sherlock, please just let me have tonight."

Sherlock understood what she didn't say. _Please don't break my heart just yet._ She knew the reason he came. She always knew, always saw right through him.

As always when he was near her lately, Sherlock didn't think about the consequences, didn't try to decipher the emotions that bubbled up in his chest when she was close. He just looked into her warm cinnamon colored eyes, and nodded.

Molly smiled a sad little smile, and extracted herself from his embrace, muttering "Tea," in a low voice. Sherlock followed her into the kitchen and removed his Belstaff, draping over a kitchen chair. He stood awkwardly by the counter; hands in his pockets, watching Molly fill the kettle and grab a lemon from the fridge.

 _What you must._

Mycroft's words wormed their way back into the forefront of Sherlock's mind. He knew what he _should_ do, but was it what he _wanted_ to do? He _should_ tell Molly that they could never be together, no matter how much they both wanted to. It was safer for her that way. She mattered most, and he wanted to make sure she would be safe. But he _wanted_ to sleep every night with Molly in his arms. Sherlock _should_ tell her that he wanted nothing to do with her, cut her down, tell her that the whole phone conversation was a means to an end, an experiment. But…he _wanted_ to tell her the truth, explain everything that happened, tell her of the feelings that had finally awoken inside him. He wanted to hold her in his arms and kiss her lips. He wanted to repeat those three words to her over and over, every day for the rest of his life.

And that is what terrified him. He was sure he could handle the thought of cutting Molly out of his life, to never stand close to her again, to never fall asleep with her in his arms if it meant she was safe. But the feelings that had scorched their way through him as he said those words to her, and after, when he destroyed the coffin, obliterating the damned thing until it was just splinters and bits of satin, those feelings terrified him worse than any kind of criminal mastermind had ever dreamed of.

"Mycroft's men came and swept the flat for cameras," Molly offered, pulling him from his turbulent thoughts. "But I figured you would want to look around too."

"I trust Mycroft." Sherlock replied quickly.

No sense in telling her that he fully planned on combing the flat himself. He trusted Mycroft's men with his life, but not with something as precious as Molly Hooper's. Sherlock knew that he wouldn't sleep soundly without making sure the Molly was truly safe.

Sherlock walked over to where Molly was cutting the lemon and opened the cupboard, bringing down two mugs and the tin of tea. He noticed his hands were shaking slightly, lack of food and sleep were not new concepts to Sherlock, choosing to go days without either in the name of a good case. But the emotional trauma of the last two days combined with those was catching up to him, and _had nothing to do with standing this close to Molly Hooper._ He thought stubbornly, as he glared at the tin in his hands as if it were all the tea's fault things had turned out the way they did.

"I had an interesting autopsy the other day," Molly tried again.

"Oh?" he replied distractedly, studying the label on the tea tin.

He knew she was trying to make the evening as normal as it had once been, determined to pretend that nothing was wrong.

Molly put the knife down, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "Sherlock?" She said.

He looked up from reading the tea tin. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. Her eyes found his, and he saw that hers were full of worry. Sherlock put the tea tin back on the counter with a little more force than necessary and turned, patting her hand on his arm awkwardly.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, "Tonight is a normal night." Sherlock murmured the last bit more to himself rather than to Molly. He turned back to the tea tin, causing her hand to fall away from his arm. "Now," he smiled. "Tell me about that autopsy."

Molly grinned back at him, but the smile did not quite reach her eyes he noticed. He supposed his didn't either. But if Molly wanted this, then he would do everything in his power to push the last forty-eight hours, the last several months, to the back, and lock them in a room in his mind palace.

Molly started telling him, in detail, about the autopsy of a murder victim. She turned back to the lemon and began cutting again as Sherlock prepared the mugs. When the kettle boiled, he poured the hot water into the mugs, handing one to her and following her into the lounge. They sat in front of the telly, watching a rerun of one of Molly's favorite shows and chatting about everything from her autopsies to Rosie. They were both very careful to never once mention Mary, or Sherlock's relapse, or anything that had happened in the last few months. To anyone looking in, it was just a normal night between two friends: hot tea, crap telly and good conversation.

When Molly finished her tea and placed the mug on the coffee table, Sherlock held out his arm, inviting her into his personal space. Looking slightly confused, she leaned into his chest, curling her legs underneath her.

Sherlock stared blankly at the television screen, thinking about the conversation that would undoubtedly come tomorrow. How was he supposed to tell her everything, when he couldn't even explain it to himself? Hell, he didn't even realize he felt so deeply about his pathologist until Eurus' game and Molly herself had made him say it out loud.

While he had been trying to sort through his feelings and what they meant for him in his mind palace, Molly had fallen asleep. Her head rested on his chest, one arm behind his back, the other hand curled under her chin. Sherlock looked down at her, brushing her hair from her face with his hand. He brushed his thumb across her eyebrow gently, taking in the way her eyelids fluttered slightly at his touch, the otherwise peaceful way her face looked while she slumbered.

A sudden, fierce emotion gripped him in that moment; a strong need to protect Molly. He had always felt a bit protective towards her, always trying to warn her when a new boyfriend wasn't good enough for her. He had always thought he was doing it to be "nice", because that is what _friends_ do. Hadn't he done the same thing for John? Looking back on all of those occasions with a set of eyes that had been opened to new emotions, Sherlock could safely say the simple answer was "no". When John had brought home a new girl, Sherlock usually kept the deductions to himself; they were usually harmless. Stupid, but harmless. Besides "Jim from IT", all of Molly's love interests had been harmless as well, but Sherlock knew now that he always said such acidic remarks about them because he was _jealous._

Jealous. He scoffed internally. Such a basic _human_ emotion. An emotion he never thought he would feel in his life, let alone that he actually _had_ emotions to acknowledge. Looking down at the petite woman next to him, Sherlock realized just how human he wanted to be, and how much his heart ached for it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, I have been quite busy and my internet has been wonky lately. As always, a huge thank you to forthegenuine for her continued hard work on making this story readable, and a huge thank you to mollyhooperish for being my biggest cheerleader, and for creating some fantastic moodboards to go along with my stories. I am forever in debt to the both of you!_

* * *

 **Firelight**

 **Chapter 3**

Sherlock Holmes wasn't sure how long he sat on Molly Hooper's sofa, letting the small woman sleep against his chest. He watched the firelight slowly burn down to mere embers, pulling a throw blanket from off the back of the sofa to drape over the pathologist.

Sherlock stared unseeing into the dying flames, retreating into his mind palace to start to clean up the damage his revelations at Sherrinford had caused. After carefully cataloguing the events of the last two days appropriately, Sherlock double-checked all of the locks and bolts on the doors in the halls of his mind, making sure their occupants behind them were secure and unable to break free and crush him with their disapproving stares. Satisfied that his memory was sorted back to its useful organized glory, he slowly came back to reality. Looking down once again at Molly resting her head on his chest, Sherlock felt his once-believed nonexistent heart give a strange lurch. He ran a thumb over her cheekbone, his action unnoticed by her in her deep sleep.

Sherlock pondered over what he was going to say to Molly in the morning. The carefully constructed speech he had put together while sitting in Mycroft's drawing room, full of cutting remarks and even sharper facts, had evaporated form his brain at the mere sight of the woman now using his chest as a pillow.

Eventually, Molly shivered in her sleep, the fading embers and thin blanket doing nothing to fight the London chill that had invaded the flat. Sherlock lifted a hand, intent on gently patting her cheek to wake her, but hesitated at how peaceful she looked while she slumbered. Sherlock let his hand drop back down to his thigh and flexed his fingers. He watched her relaxed face for a few moments longer, something tickling the back of his mind. When Molly shivered again, he gave a slight shake of his head to dislodge the brush of _something_ from his mind, and laid his fingers on Molly's cheek.

"Molly," he murmured. "Molly, wake up."

She stirred, snuggling closer for a moment before opening her eyes. Sherlock quirked the corner of his mouth up in half a grin, which she returned.

Sherlock stood and held his hand out to her. Molly allowed herself to be helped to her feet, letting the thin blanket slide to the floor. Sherlock hovered his hand at the small of her back and guided her to her bedroom, where he handed her folded pajamas to her.

"I'll lock up while you change," he said quietly.

Heading back to the lounge, Sherlock picked up and folded the throw blanket and placed it on the back of the sofa. He then took their mugs and placed them in the sink, putting the rest of the lemon back in the fridge before shutting off the light in the kitchen. What would Mrs. Hudson say if she saw cleaning up after himself? Let alone someone else, since he often just left things wherever they landed at his own flat. Interesting how Molly Hooper could make him change his ingrained habits with just a look, he thought, frowning, slightly annoyed at the domesticity Molly was able to bring out in him. The tickle brushed against the back of his mind again, causing Sherlock to scratch the back of his head, as if that would make the nagging feeling disappear. Making sure the front door was properly bolted, Sherlock made his way back to Molly's bedroom, knocking softly before entering.

Molly was already snuggled deep under the duvet. She cracked an eye open when she heard him enter. Snaking an arm out from under the covers, Molly beckoned Sherlock to join her, scooting over to the other side of the bed to give him room. Slipping of his shoes and suit jacket, Sherlock slid under the duvet, folding his arms behind his head. Molly hovered a hand over his chest for a moment, looking at him for permission. Sherlock's stomach gave an odd lurch as he nodded the affirmative and she rested her hand on his left pectoral, just over his heart.

Sherlock internally rolled his eyes at his body's response to her touch. It wasn't like this was the first time she had touched him while they shared her bed. Far from it, actually. Most nights started on their respective sides until one or both reached for the other, sometimes with Molly pulled tight against him, her back to his chest, sometimes the opposite way around. Some nights had Molly using Sherlock's chest or shoulder as a pillow, and once, Sherlock had woken to his face resting comfortably on Molly's chest. That one had caused mortification to turn his ears pink and had him fleeing from the flat before she could wake.

So why was tonight so different? Was it because their mutual feelings were out in the open, hovering over them both; burning like a floating ball of fire, shining it's light onto every insignificant interaction? Or was it because Sherlock knew that this would be the last time he had Molly so close to him?

When Molly's breathing had evened out again, Sherlock tentively placed an arm around her shoulders, ignoring the warm twitch his heart gave at the extra contact.

Sherlock laid awake, listening to Molly's slow even breathing and thinking about the next day. Emotions were such an inconvenient thing, he thought sourly. The mind was the only thing that mattered, everything else was merely transport. But if that were true, then why did he feel so content to have Molly sleeping soundly by his side? He could feel every point her body touched his like a searing flame, and when the pads of his fingers brushed along the skin of her arm, he felt as if electricity was running its way up the veins of his arm, straight to his heart.

Molly shifted in her sleep, unconsciously moving closer to him, her fingers lightly gripping at the gap between the buttons on his dress shirt, and the bubbling warm feeling that started in his stomach and made its way up his chest suddenly set off alarm bells in his brain. When all emotions were hidden and unquestioned, Sherlock could be content taking every bit of comfort Molly Hooper silently offered him, soaking it all up like a dry sponge. But the second those feelings became common knowledge, panic started to set in.

What was he thinking, coming to Molly's flat all these times? It wasn't like him to initiate physical contact of any kind, and here he was, _snuggling_ Molly Hooper on a regular basis, like some soppy teenager in their first relationship. He felt his breathing quicken, his heart started to beat faster. Not only would these _feelings_ and _emotions_ slow his brain power, but they would cause messy situations to arise. Molly had already been targeted once because of their somewhat intimate interactions. Mundane as they were, to an outsider it would _look_ intimate. These thoughts came pouring into the halls of his mind palace, the bolted doors he had been trying to keep locked hanging off their hinges. He felt as if ice water was flooding his veins as each new terrible thought came flying through the open doors in his brain.

Sherlock, as quickly and stealthily as he could without waking Molly up, extracted himself from her and planted himself onto the old beat up armchair that sat beside the bedroom window. At this now safer distance from the small pathologist, his panicked breathing began to slow, the blaring alarms in his mind palace started to fade, but the strange tickling sensation that had been bothering him was now sharp in his head.

He knew what had happened. He had let his carefully constructed walls slowly fade in Molly's presence, and had let his sharp sense for danger become lax; all because of the feeling of _home_ he got when he was in her arms. He was _stupid_. Stupid to think that any form of happiness outside of "the work" he might find would ever amount to anything. Sure, he had some form of happiness in his friendship with John Watson, but look how that turned out. He had gotten his best friends wife murdered. Sure, John had forgiven him, but things weren't exactly the same. The death of Mary still hung over the two like a cloud of heavy smoke, her love for both men even more obvious in its absence. Mary was his friend too, her constant smile and witty comments always challenging him out of a bad mood, and he had lost his friend because of his need to be the smartest man in the room. Because of his need to show off, John had suddenly became a single parent, and now most of his time was taken up by little Rosie.

The thought of his goddaughter sent a pang of shame and guilt swirling through the detective's tall frame. He was the reason that caused his goddaughter to have to grow up without a mother. Some great protector of the people he cares for he was, Sherlock thought bitterly, pressing his mouth into a thin line and clenching his fists against the arms of the chair.

 _This_ is where caring got you, Sherlock thought angrily. Mycroft was right: caring wasn't an advantage. All caring had gotten him lately was his friends wife murdered and the woman who would do anything for him a broken heart. Just an hour ago Sherlock had thought to himself how he had wanted to be human; to indulge in his newly surfaced feelings. How wrong he was. Alone was what he had. Alone was what protected him.

Alone was what protected those he cared for.

Sherlock pulled his shoes towards him from under Molly's vanity and laced them on his feet. He stood and pulled on his suit jacket. With one last longing, regretful look at the slumbering pathologist, Sherlock buttoned his jacket and slipped out of her bedroom.

Scribbling a note onto the pad of paper on Molly's counter, Sherlock let himself out of her flat and into the cold London night. Flipping up the collar of his Belstaff and shoving his hands into the pockets, Sherlock thought back to the words Mycroft had uttered ages ago, as he stood outside of Bart's morgue.

Thinking his older brother was right twice in one night was new for Sherlock, but he couldn't help but agree with Mycroft just this once; all lives end, and all hearts are broken.

* * *

Please don't hate me...I promise there will be a happy ending.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hello my dear readers! My most sincere apologies for the long wait! Real life happens sometimes, and tends to get in the way. BUT! Here is the newest chapter of "Firelight"!_

 _As always, massive shoutouts and thanks to the lovely forthegenuine for her amazing beta skills and encouragement. Without her, this fic would not be readable to anyone. And another massive thank you to the fantastic mollyhooperish for her unfailing encouragement and praise. You both are lifesavers._

* * *

 **Firelight**

 **Chapter 4**

Sherlock Holmes sat in his favorite chair in the partially reconstructed 221B Baker Street, hands placed palm to palm and fingertips resting on his lips. His mobile lay on the small table beside the chair, silent, the battery long since dead. A cup of cold tea sat to the right of the phone, forgotten hours earlier.

Sherlock sat mostly in the dark, not bothering to move from his position to turn on the lamps as the sun set, the glow from the fire in the grate the only illumination in the room. The flames threw dark shadows across the consulting detectives Victorian-esque face, causing the circles under his eyes to deepen, giving him a haunted, archaic look. He stared, unseeing, into the dusky kitchen, lost in his mind palace.

 _He stood outside the same rattling door as before, staring at the expanse of deep red wood in front of him. He knew logically that what was behind the door was just a construct of his mind- a ghost of the real person- a reflection. Yet she felt real. He could "feel" her anger and sorrow emanating through the smooth wood, soaking into his skin and branding his heart. A heart he was still desperately trying to ignore. Placing his hand on the brass handle, he was surprised when it stopped rattling, as if the handle along with the petite woman on the other side held their breath._

" _You know you must talk to her, little brother," came Mycroft's voice from behind him._

 _Sherlock turned, brow furrowing. "Get out of my head,_ brother mine, _" he half growled, turning back to the door in front of him._

" _Mycroft's right, you know," said another voice._

 _Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, sighed, and turned back to the door, his head now hanging._

" _Not you, too, John," he said quietly._

" _Well, maybe then you'll listen to someone smart," came a cheeky reply._

 _Sherlock's head snapped up and he spun on his heels to face the owner of the one voice that had been silent for far too long in his mind._

 _The hallway was now empty save for the small blonde woman before him. She was wearing the same purple dress she had worn to the restaurant where Sherlock had sprung his surprise return on John, interrupting his proposal. She smiled widely at him, her eyes twinkling with the same mischief he had grown so used to seeing while she was alive._

" _Mary," he breathed._

Sherlock forced himself out of his mind palace and landed harshly back in reality, sweating slightly. He leaned his head on the back of the chair for a moment, dragging his hands over his face before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, palms placed on either side of his head, fingers tugging at his hair.

Even his brain wouldn't give him a break today. The offensive grey matter insisted on conjuring up all manner of things he neither needed nor wanted to deal with at the moment.

* * *

Sherlock had walked around the dark streets of London for hours when he had left Molly's, stopping every so often at newsstands to buy yet another pack of cigarettes. Guilt clawed at his stomach with every purchase, Molly's disapproving face appearing in blinding clarity in his mind every time he lit one. He supposed nicotine was a better indulgence than to give into the itch beneath the flesh of his arm at the moment.

He made it to Baker Street just as dawn approached, and let himself into the flat, treading carefully so he wouldn't wake Mrs. Hudson. With any luck, she would think he was still out god-knows-where, doing god-knows-what, and he would get some much needed time to think things through.

Especially since holing up in Molly's bedroom was out of the question now.

Throwing his Belstaff and suit jacket onto John's old chair, Sherlock sank into his own chair, running a hand through his hair. He pulled his mobile out of his trouser pocket and placed it on the table before he went to make himself a cup of tea.

Just as he was stirring in the milk, he heard his mobile buzz with an incoming text. Sherlock knew exactly who it was.

As he sat down in his chair, sipping his tea and studiously ignoring his buzzing mobile, Sherlock envisioned the scene that had played out at Molly's flat after he had snuck out.

He knew she would wake around dawn, her internal clock so used to early shifts at the morgue. She would roll over to find the other side of the bed empty, and notice his jacket and shoes gone from the vanity. Molly would then make her way through her flat, looking for him, and she would find the note he had scribbled hastily on his way out the door.

 _I am sorry, Molly Hooper. Thank you for everything. –SH_

She would then scramble back to her bedroom and pick her mobile up from her nightstand, and start texting him. Sherlock looked at his watch. Molly was texting him fourteen minutes sooner than he had anticipated.

Setting his half full teacup down next to his phone, Sherlock delved back into his mind palace, oblivious to the passage of time around him. That was where John found him as dusk was settling, sitting in his chair, a cup of cold tea and a dead phone next to him.

John wondered how he wasn't freezing, glancing at the fireplace that now held nothing but embers.

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock asked, not moving his eyes from the shadowy kitchen.

"To know why the hell you have been ignoring Molly all day," John said gruffly, moving Sherlock's Belstaff and suit jacket to sit down in his own chair.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from his study of the dark kitchen at the mention of Molly's name. Contacting John was something he had not anticipated Molly would do. Damned emotions, slowing down his brain and making him overlook simple things like this.

Sherlock sighed, folding his hands in his lap. Guilt swirled in his chest. He knew Molly would want answers, and he knew he had to give them to her.

"Molly said you came over last night," John started, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, looking into the glowing embers that were left in the fireplace.

"Did you talk to her?" John asked, moving to sit in his old armchair.

"We…spoke," Sherlock said evasively, scratching at the crook of his arm.

"About?" John prompted, starting to get annoyed at his friend's attempt to evade the conversation.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking everywhere but at John. What he wouldn't have given at that moment to lose himself in the sweet relief of a hit, to drown his memories of the last couple of months in a liquid solution coursing its way through his veins.

"My god," John said softly, realization dawning on his face. "You're running away from this, aren't you?"

"What do I have to run away from?" Sherlock asked incredulously, scrunching his shoulders and letting them drop as he said it, as if he didn't really care for the answer.

"From Molly," said John with a short huff of laughter. "You are running away from happiness."

John stared at Sherlock for few moments, his mouth slightly open. Sherlock dared a glance at him, and then let his eyes shift back to studying John's shoes.

"Did nothing I said to you sink in?" John suddenly burst out, jumping to his feet and pointing an accusing finger in Sherlock's face. "You have found the one woman on this planet that loves you _for you_ , not because you are a clever famous detective, or because she's bored or wants something from you. You know full well that Molly Hooper can put up with all of your ridiculous idiosyncrasies; she has been doing it for years, and she accepts them! You know that she would never try to change you, hell, she _encourages_ your more insane habits, like body parts in the fridge and experiments all over the kitchen table! _And you are running away from it._ "

Sherlock sat staring at the floor, letting John's words sink in. He knew John was right, and that made the whole thing all the more uncomfortable. He remembered with perfect clarity John's speech to him in this very room, just a few weeks ago, when Irene had sent him the birthday greeting and John had told him to go and get a piece of his own happiness before he lost it. But the dominatrix was not the first person to come waltzing through his mind palace at that statement.

"You are making a mistake, Sherlock, and you are going to regret it. Love like Molly Hooper has for you is incredibly strong, but even the greatest love can turn bitter when it keeps getting shot down," John said, shaking his head and running a hand over his face.

"No, John," Sherlock said quietly, still staring at the carpet. "The only mistake to be made lies within me telling Molly how I truly feel." Sherlock raised his face.

John raised his eyebrows, disbelief written all over his face. He dropped back into his chair with a dejected sigh.

"Sherlock-,"

"No, John!" Sherlock cut him off. "Don't you _see_? Molly has been used against me since the beginning! Before I even had the slightest thought of mere _friendship_ with her, let alone _feelings_! My brother tried to get her to spy on me, and she refused. Moriarty saw that we worked together, and pretended to like her just to get close to me, but she was clever and broke it off with him. Insignificant Molly Hooper _broke up_ with the greatest criminal mastermind of the era! And Eurus! Look what she did! Two of my own siblings and a criminal mastermind, using an unassuming, quiet pathologist just to destroy me! _And Molly wouldn't have any of it._ She has already done so much to keep me safe, to help me whenever I have needed it. She would insist on the relationship, and it _would_ work because of all of the things you said, but it would also make her an even bigger target." Sherlock was breathing heavy, his anger causing his voice to raise to near shouting. He was leaning forward in his chair, glaring at the retired army doctor sitting across from him.

After a moment of labored breathing, Sherlock hung his head, resting his elbows on his knees and bringing his hands up to grip his hair.

"Telling Molly Hooper the truth is the same thing as signing her death certificate." Sherlock said in a hollow voice, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I can't allow that to happen to her, John. I will not allow my own selfishness to destroy her."

John sat staring at his best friend, dumbfounded. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, resting his head on the back of it and glared at the ceiling.

He refused to be the reason Molly's life was snuffed out. He had already been the cause of one death of someone he cared about due to his own selfish desire to do what he wanted. He wouldn't let it happen again, especially not to the one person who mattered most to him.

Sherlock would jump off a thousand rooftops, suffer a thousand lifetimes at the hands of Serbian thugs, being tortured for weeks on end without respite, before he allowed any harm to come to Molly Hooper.

"You had better figure out something, Sherlock," John said. "Before you sign your own death certificate."

* * *

 _I promise to update the next chapter much sooner. I can be found on tumblr and AO3 as ladycumberbunny as well. _


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello my lovely readers! This is the fifth and final chapter of Firelight! I want to thank each and everyone of you who have read, reviewed, favorited, and followed this fic! You all have made my little writing heart so happy with all of your kind words!_

 _As always, a hugh shoutout to forthegenuine for her amazing beta skills, without you girl, I would be lost. And to mollyhooperish for her never ending support. I dedicated this fic to the two of you xoxo._

 _Any mistakes that may appear are my own, and in no way relfect the skills of my beta._

* * *

 **Firelight**

 **Chapter 5**

 _Sherlock stood in front of the rattling door in his mind palace again. Delving into his mind palace always seemed to result in him ending up in front of the same plain redwood door. He stood there for ages, long enough that the occupant of the room had finally stopped trying to get out. Sherlock could smell the faint traces of formaldehyde and just a hint of rosemary and mint that seemed to always linger around this particular door._

" _Are you going to stand there forever, or are you going to face the music?" came Mary's voice from behind him._

 _Sherlock turned. Mary was looking at him, a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. She looked just as she did the day she had died._

" _What am I supposed to say?" Sherlock asked the ghost of his friend, his voice sounding hopeless and lost._

" _Now, no reason to sound so utterly defeated, Sherlock," Mary teased._

" _John says I'm running away from it," He told her._

" _John is smarter than he looks," Mary smiled._

" _Yes, he is," Sherlock agreed, grinning back at her. "I have to keep her safe." He said more seriously._

" _What better way to do that than to be close to her?" Mary asked him, raising an eyebrow._

" _I can't lose her, Mary," Sherlock said, his voice in his mind palace betraying the hurt he felt in his heart._

" _We both know what kind of life this is, Sherlock. John knew it when he found out about my past but he stayed anyway. He knew the risks. And so does Molly." Mind-palace-Mary told him, offering a comforting smile. "So why deny yourself the happiness you know she could bring?"_

 _Sherlock turned back to the door in front of him. He knew what he had to do. What he_ must _do._

 _Reaching a hand out, Sherlock grasped the handle of the heavy redwood door, and turned the handle._

* * *

Sherlock was pacing a hole right into the floor of 221B. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette!

 _No!_ He thought. _She would be able to smell it._

He paced back and forth, muttering to himself. His hair was standing up in all directions where he had been raking his hands through it in frustration. With every turn, his dressing gown would flutter behind him, the edges coming precariously close to the flames roaring in the fireplace.

Mrs. Hudson walked in the door, carrying a tray holding Sherlock's morning tea.

"She would smell it!" Sherlock muttered out loud, making Mrs. Hudson jump.

"Are you okay Sherlock?" she asked, pouring his tea.

Sherlock continued to pace and mutter, giving no indication that he neither saw nor heard his landlady come into the room.

"Need to know…her schedule…Bart's….off…" He continued.

Mrs. Hudson took a closer look at her tenant. She noticed how wild his eyes looked, his hair mussed from his shaking fingers repeatedly combing through and yanking at it. He was perspiring slightly, but Mrs. Hudson wondered if it was from his relentless pacing so close to the fire, or from something worse.

"Sherlock Holmes, are you high again?!" Mrs. Hudson asked, placing her hands on her hips.

Without pausing in his pacing, Sherlock lifted an arm and pointed to the door.

"OUT," he barked.

"Oh, you will answer for this, young man!" she said, hurrying out of the room and down the stairs.

Once safely inside 221A, Mrs. Hudson picked up her phone and dialed John's number.

"Hello?" came John's voice down the line.

"Oh, John! You have to get over here, I think Sherlock is using again! He won't stop pacing and he looks mad!" Mrs. Hudson cried desperately over the phone.

* * *

 _Sherlock opened the redwood door, and walked into the one room in his mind palace he had been avoiding lately._

 _Looking around the brightly colored room, he realized just how much it reflected it's occupant. Bright splashes of color adorned the walls, a colorful striped duvet was folded on the back of a bright yellow sofa, a wooden desk littered with files stood in one corner, and a bench full of lab equipment took up one whole side. He noticed the mantle on the back wall, flames dancing merrily in the grate, the firelight causing warm shadows to dance on the wall behind the only other piece of furniture in the room. His eyes came to rest on the small woman who was seated comfortably on a cherry pattered armchair in the center of the room._

 _She was dressed as he usually saw her, beige slacks, colorful blouse and a loose fitting jumper with a child-like pattern across it. Her dark auburn hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, and a small smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth._

" _Molly," Sherlock breathed._

* * *

"What is he doing?" John asked Mrs. Hudson when he arrived at Baker Street.

"He's been pacing and muttering for two hours!" the older woman exclaimed, her voice just above a whisper, as they made their way upstairs. "He had the nerve to order me out of the flat, and I was just bringing him his morning tea! I am so worried about him, John."

John hummed in agreement. "I have no idea where he would've gotten anything. He's been under constant supervision in some form or another between Mycroft and all of us," he whispered.

John and Mrs. Hudson were standing shoulder to shoulder, peaking through a crack in the door that lead into 221B. John could hear Sherlock muttering as he gestured wildly with his hands and raked them through his hair every so often. John caught words like "Bart's" "Understand" "You" and-

"Did he just say ' _Molly_ '?" John asked, shocked.

* * *

" _Molly," Sherlock breathed, drinking in the sight of the small pathologist._

" _Sherlock," she replied._

 _His mind palace had captured her voice perfectly, he thought._

" _I don't know what to do," he admitted to her, dropping to his knees in front of his mind's reflection of the woman who mattered most. "I don't know what to say to you, how to explain myself." Sherlock dropped his head into his hands. "I can't lose you, Molly Hooper. You matter most, surely you must know that?"_

 _He felt her small fingers in his hair, smoothing the curls back into place. "Oh Sherlock, how am I supposed to know how you feel when you keep yourself so closed off from everyone?" She replied in her soft voice._

 _Sherlock leaned into her touch, his forehead coming to rest on her knees. "Alone is what I have, alone is what protects me."_

 _He had repeated that same line countless times, but wasn't sure if he even believed it anymore, wondering exactly who he was trying to convince._

" _And what about me, Sherlock?" Mind-palace-Molly asked him, her fingers still softly carding through his hair._

" _Alone is what protects_ you _." He told her._

" _You know that isn't true." She moved her hand to his jaw, guiding his face so he was looking at her now. There was a knowing smile on her face, and a glint in her warm eyes._

* * *

Sherlock opened the door to the landing so suddenly that Mrs. Hudson and John Watson almost fell through it.

"Oh, hello," Sherlock said, winding his scarf around his neck. "I have to go out. It's very important, and I won't be back until late."

He brushed past them, his long wool coat billowing behind him as he flew down the stairs.

"Where do you think he's going?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her hand at her throat.

"I think he might be going to finally get his head out of his arse," John chuckled, smiling at his former landlady.

* * *

 _Sherlock knelt on the floor in his mind palace. He was surrounded by a riot of colors and patterns, all reflecting the sunny personality of the woman who sat in front of him, cradling his face in her tiny hands._

" _You know that isn't true." She had told him._

 _Sherlock moved his hands to cover Molly's, marveling at how even in his mind he could feel how soft they were._

" _You always see straight through me, Molly Hooper."_

" _I only see the man you truly are, Sherlock," She said with a warm smile._

" _I can't lose you," he repeated, closing his eyes._

" _Then don't." Mind-palace-Molly said simply._

* * *

"I sent her home, Sherlock." Mike Stamford informed the detective.

Sherlock had burst into the morgue doors, fully expecting to see Molly standing there, and instead found Mike.

"Home?" Sherlock repeated.

"Yeah, she seemed stressed. I told her to take some time off." Mike said, tossing his gloves into the bin and looking at Sherlock.

"Is there anything I can he-" Mike started, but Sherlock was already out the door.

* * *

" _I don't know how to be what you want me to be." Sherlock said, a frown marring his features._

" _Just say it, Sherlock. Say it like you mean it." She told him softly._

* * *

"Taxi!" Sherlock yelled once he was back on the pavement in front of Bart's.

Climbing in, Sherlock barked Molly's address to the cabbie and promised a large tip if he could make it there in less than ten minutes.

Sherlock sat back and rubbed his thighs with his sweaty palms, his fingers trembling slightly. He couldn't remember the last time his hands had felt so clammy. He did not know how this encounter was going to end, did not know if Molly would even accept his apology. Or his explanation for that matter.

The only thing Sherlock Holmes knew for sure was that he was _nervous_.

* * *

 _Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit. Logically, he knew how his mind palace worked; it was a memory tool, a place to allow him to access and go over information from all sides in the form of "tangible" objects. The people who populated his mind were mere reflections of their real life counterparts. He knew they only responded the way_ he _wanted them to. They only knew however much he knew. So when mind-palace-Molly told him to say those three words, he knew it was his own subconscious instructing him to do so._

 _But as he looked at Molly Hooper, sitting in a cherry patterned arm chair in her very own room of his mind palace, Sherlock wasn't sure if it was his subconscious telling him what to do, or the pathologist herself._

" _Go on," Molly urged, rubbing the pads of her thumbs over his cheekbones._

 _Sherlock stared at her, taking in her gently smiling mouth, her sparkling brown eyes, small upturned nose. His hands rested on the armchair, on either side of her thighs, and her small hands were still running smoothly across his high cheekbones. He could feel the warmth of the fire making its way under the armchair to swirl around his knees, and the warmth of her hands on his face, and suddenly it didn't matter if this was all in his head or if it was real. It didn't matter if he prepared a speech detailing exactly what happened on that cold, rain-swept island that day, or if a large metaphorical target was now painted on this woman's back, he knew what he must do._

 _He lifted his hands from where they rested beside her legs and placed them on either side of her face, his long fingers almost touching behind her head and looked into the eyes of this reflection of the real person._

 _He opened his mouth, a slight grin tugging up one corner of his lips, and said…_

* * *

Sherlock stood in front of a redwood door, and raised his hand to knock, thinking how his mind had recreated this same door exactly in his head, right down to the scratches on the handle from numerous keys being shoved into the lock, and the dents near the bottom from various pieces of furniture being moved in and out of the flat over the years.

Sherlock could hear the flat's occupant moving about, could sense their movement behind the door as they peered through the peephole to see who was on the other side, and as he heard the lock slide back, he took a deep breath.

She opened the door, wearing a pair of old flannel pajamas with pictures of cats all over them, and a t-shirt that was far too large for her frame. Sherlock noticed her bare feet and mussed hair, her eyes red from crying and the tearstains on the neck of her shirt. His heart shuddered in his chest, the knowledge that he was the cause of those tears made guilt and shame claw their way up his throat. But behind all of this information, another thought, from the far recesses of his mind palace slowly sauntered it's way to the front: She still looked beautiful.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Molly asked, her tone sounding defeated, her eyes not quite meeting his.

Sherlock's heart gave that strange shudder again, and the guilt and shame that was swirling through his tall frame caused his throat to constrict.

" _Ahem,_ " he tried clearing his throat.

Molly just glanced at him, puzzled.

"Sherlock?" she prompted. "If you are just going to stand there than you can just turn around and make yo-"

"It's all true." He cut her off.

She finally made eye contact at that, her mouth still open from her unfinished sentence. Sherlock saw confusion, realization, and then anger all flicker across her face before hurt settled in her eyes. She clenched her jaw and her brows furrowed over her tear filled eyes.

"Please don't try to lie to me, Sherlock," she whispered.

"You know I can't, Molly Hooper," He said softly. "You always see right through me."

"That's why I asked you not to insult me by trying to lie," Molly pointed out, her face hardening slightly.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, then drew together in sorrow. His mind raced, going back over the conversation he had had with mind-palace-Molly and did the only thing he could think of doing that would make her listen, and blurted out what she had instructed him to say in his mind.

"I love you."

* * *

 _Thank you all again for reading! I will be back soon with the conclusion to the light-verse series with Sunlight! Be on the lookout!_

 _I can be found on tumblr and AO3 as ladycumberbunny_


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